the forest of talking trees
by Seph Meadowes
Summary: He leaves violets all over for her, not quite aconite like before. But the similarity haunts her. Peter/Lydia. Complete.


_The son was an okay guy.  
They had a pet dragonfly.  
The dragonfly it ran away,  
But it came back with a story to say._  
**- Of Monsters and Men, Dirty Paws**

* * *

Cold, steel blue is all he sees in the mirror.

Before, his eyes were that warm gold and he wanted red.

He wants blood red that came with the title he could never hold.

Leader. King. _Alpha._

And Peter Hale wants a crown even more than he wants to whet his teeth with blood.

If the moon calls for sacrifice, Peter would've offered anyone to get it.

For a throne always out of his grasp.

For a throne he sacrifices a girl he loves for.

Black bile, tears, and pain.

("Peter, please, I can't take it anymore.")

Derek crying as he absorbs her pain, trying to tell her it's going to be okay.

("It hurts. Make it stop.")

But he can't do it. Dig his nails into her neck and rip out that vein he's kissed over and over again, that thrummed whenever he comes near.

He can only look at his nephew, still so young and idealistic. With warm gold eyes, bright and free.

He lets out a word that's foreign to him.

("Please.")

And Derek's eyes are wide and afraid.

("I can't do it, Derek. Please don't make me.")

This is a fatal plea.

And Derek reaches out, resigned.

Both their eyes are blue.

* * *

Lydia feels stuck in a dream.

Like one of the hallucinations Peter tormented her with.

Worms, flowers and clear blue eyes.

Horror and beauty.

Fit for a queen.

It's the clothes that set her off.

For Lydia Martin understands the importance of appearance and she's clever, a genius even.

And maybe she needs to have a talk with Mr. Hawking about time travel.

But then again, this is Beacon Hills.

And the place attracts weird and impossible like flies to honey.

So when she bumps into a young Peter Hale, not a hallucination this time, she does the only thing she can think of–

_She runs away as fast as she can._

Pale blue eyes follow her as she tries to escape the inevitable.

* * *

Peter hasn't step foot on the playground in years.

But he finds himself drawn there.

A ringing in his head that doesn't seem to want to stop since a girl with red gold hair bumps him.

Making him chase her like a predator hunts prey.

The blood thirst is familiar but he holds it back with a shove.

The girl who smells –

_Not human but not wolf _

–is sitting on the swings, all alone in the playground.

Except for the big bad wolf watching her, trying to understand–

_What makes her so special?_

("Leave me alone." )

The way she quivers almost beckons him closer.

("Please….")

He is inches from her and he can smell her skin, sweet and clean.

("…don't hurt me.")

The wolf in him snarls, teeth bared at the smell of fear.

But he holds himself back and gently picks up a perfect curl of red gold instead.

("And why would I do that?")

She looks up at him and her doe eyes and the wolf howls.

Blood thirst forgotten for something else.

* * *

Lydia stays in the Hales' home.

And the house is lovely, even more than the hallucination Peter had shown her.

Not yet charred black with ash and memories.

She stays in her room and writes on a thick notebook, equations and theories on how she ends up there.

In the past and in the same house as Peter Hale.

Who breathes down her neck, whispering–

("Banshee, huh?")

He leaves violets all over for her, not quite aconite like before.

But the similarity haunts her.

And she throws each one away.

More just keep appearing.

* * *

Peter has never met a banshee before.

So it's no surprise that Lydia intrigues him.

Especially when her brown eyes narrow at the sight of him–

_Unwelcoming and unhappy like he is not worthy to be near her._

Calm and controlled like a queen.

The king inside him grins.

And sometimes he thinks about sinking his teeth in her.

Her fragile skin and bones, giving way for him.

But even if an alpha does the same, she would not turn.

Not like–

_Black bile, tears and pain._

Never like –

_Paige's fingers on her cello, her expression calm as she plays._

Because Lydia isn't some weak girl.

She's a banshee and she stays as one.

Her fingers plucking on the piano chords to hear better.

_Whispers, whispers_–

("Do you hear that?")

His ever clever Lydia.

Pretty and perfect with secrets in her eyes.

* * *

Lydia still hates Peter Hale.

Still remembers his teeth sinking into her.

Left her all alone on a field to die.

And then he tries to break and prod her.

Tempts her with the same perfect face.

("Compulsively drawn to cute but narcissistic girls,")

Scares her with horrific images.

("Let me show you.")

To make her useful.

To make her do as he pleases.

Peter is still the same person.

Even with the fire not yet happening.

He is still Peter.

("Clever Lydia,")

Bloodthirsty, manipulative Peter.

("_My_ Lydia,")

Definitely not hers.

("_Mine_,")

And she doesn't want him to be.

* * *

Peter finally kisses Lydia.

And it's on a full moon.

The wolf jumps against the cage bars, howling and growing for release–

_I want her, I want her, I want her._

He wants his teeth in her shoulder, his cock inside her.

He wants her screams for something else.

Wants his banshee to wail his name, loud for the world.

_Mine, mine, mine_–

The wolf practically whines.

_I want her. She's mine._

Teeth bared, eyes glowing blue, he makes his way to where she sits on her bed.

Clever fingers on a pen, writing down those damn equations again.

_Mine!_

The wolf doesn't want to be caged anymore.

And she looks up just in time as he pushes her back on her bed.

Her eyes wide as he growls–

("I'm done waiting,")

He kisses her hard.

And she whimpers beneath him, clever lips so soft under his.

She pulls away.

Her eyes are dark and resigned.

Finally acquiescing to the sheer insanity they both feel.

("Be gentle.")

He nips at her lips.

("_Peter_,")

He sighs and relents.

He can't resist her.

And he reins in the beast inside him to kiss her tenderly.

* * *

Lydia stares down at five positive pregnancy tests and chokes on a sob.

She wants to scream but not because of the noise in her head.

There are no whispers.

Only the dawning horror as she realizes what she has done.

Her hands wrap around her middle, to the tiny clump of cells no bigger than a needle.

Half her, half Peter Hale.

She wants to cry and she lets herself.

This time only and then no more.

For that dream she always thought is inevitable for her.

Ivy League, Fields Medal and Jackson.

But all those things are out of reach now.

And what she has is–

A basement, a notebook full of equations and Peter Hale.

_And now a baby._

* * *

Peter waits for Lydia to emerge from the bathroom.

Knowing what the change in her scent has been for weeks now.

But today is more of a confirmation.

And when she opens the bathroom door, eyes red rimmed but dry, his mouth dries.

She looks at him tiredly.

Like the very sight of him drains her of life.

("I'm not keeping it,")

She tries to sound resolute but he can hear the doubt in her voice.

("Why not?")

He challenges her.

Because he dearly loves to do so.

His clever, fiery Lydia.

She falters for a second too long.

He grins in triumph.

("I hope it's a girl.")

* * *

Lydia tells time by her belly.

It gets rounder and bigger day by day.

She waddles.

Her back aches.

Her ankles are swollen.

She can't control her bladder.

And she absolutely despises Peter Hale.

She thought she did before but now she knows true hate.

For he did this to her.

He made her into a human incubator.

For a baby that may or may not be a werewolf.

("She's going to be a werewolf, Lydia. She's my kid.")

She has to suffer while he sits back and laughs at his handiwork.

("She's my kid too.")

She throws stuff at him when she sees him.

* * *

Peter Hale holds Lydia's hand as their child comes into the world.

Screaming like a banshee's daughter should be.

Lydia is exhausted and wet from perspiration.

And he grins as the doctor hands the wailing infant to him.

("She has my nose.")

Lydia wrinkles her nose but looks down at the baby to see.

She agrees begrudgingly.

("And she has your eyes.")

Lydia smiles fondly at that.

Tired but content.

("What's her name?")

He shrugs.

("You name her.")

Lydia takes her from him.

She smiles so warmly.

Like a beacon.

("I like the name 'Allison'.")

He smiles as well.

("Alright. Hello, Allison Hale.")

* * *

Lydia is a year and three months into the past when Kate Argent burns down the Hale house.

She's in the woods outside the house when she sees the smoke.

Allison has no idea what's happening, dozing in her stroller.

Lydia can barely scream.

And she finds herself back in her own time.

Finally after such a long time.

Her baby's not with her.

Peter Hale still burning in that house.

And she screams.

And screams.

As loud as she can.

* * *

Peter Hale is looking at the view outside the window when Lydia Martin enters the loft.

Her eyes are haunted.

And she shivers even though it's not cold.

He realizes what has happened.

Recently to her.

Years for him.

("You're back.")

She nods, timidly.

Not like Lydia.

Not like his Lydia.

("W-What happened to-")

Malia runs down the stairs, grinning widely as she sees Lydia.

Pretty Malia with his nose and Lydia's eyes.

Malia hugs her like a small child.

And she is in a way.

Trapped in a body of a teenager.

Not aging like Peter Pan.

The woods in her wolf form had been her Neverland.

Wordlessly, Lydia lets herself be dragged by Malia to the couch in the corner.

She sits down and lets Malia put her head on her lap.

Her clever fingers idly run through her daughter's soft, brown hair.

And all the while Peter watches.

* * *

**Wow, I know this doesn't make any sense. And in can no way fit into the canon of the show but this literally came to me in a dream and I had to write it. Paige having a relationship with Peter instead of Derek is based on a theory I read on Tumblr. This is my first Teen Wolf fic. And it's also really insane. Time travel? Lydia as Malia's mom? Crazy, crazy, crazy.**


End file.
